Moving Still
by Skylarcat
Summary: How does one move forward when all they do is stand still?
1. FALL

**Title:** Moving Still  
><strong>Author:<strong> Skylarcat  
><strong>Classification:<strong> Flynn and Vega. Will be posted in parts.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Impossibly sad.  
><strong>Feedback:<strong> Please.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Okay, so I feel I have to explain this story. I'm in the middle of writing a stand alone, chapter story, but in trying to get each chapter right, I find it's taking longer than expected. After watching the episode 'Pitfall' a One-Shot came to me. I got half way through it when after a discussion with a friend regarding the season finale, my mind wondered to a dark place and this came worth. It's in parts, better format that way. I know many will not read, since it will be painful, trust me, it was painful to write, but I wanted to share it, sort of like a page of a diary, personal, but still needing someone else to read and share the experience with you. I hope a few can respect its depth. Part of me is angry for even thinking it up...  
><strong>Note:<strong> Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

**XXX**

**Fall**

She sits alone, in the dark, in her car, and watches the rain as it falls against the windshield. It streaks down the pane and puddles at the base of her hood. She thinks about reaching out and tracing the drops. She decides she will need her umbrella, but she doesn't reach for it. Instead, she sits still, afraid to move. Her heart pounds so hard against her chest, so hard that she swears it will explode. Each bang rings in her ears; the sound like the firing of a gun.

_Rain, rain, go away. Come again, another day. _The melody of the childhood song hums from her lips. She concentrates on each word, and pretends to not know how insane she looks, sitting in her car, in the pouring rain, while her warm house beckons her only a few yards away. She watches the small porch light flicker, its glow casting shadows along the dark ground.

_One.. two...three, _she begins to count silently to herself while her car engine hums softly. _"I hate this car, how's that for honesty?" _His voice plays in her head; the sudden memory washing forth, like a wave crashing against the shore. She bits her lip hard, so hard that she can taste blood. _Do not think, do not think. _She warns herself, but it's too late; her minds already there; the memories spilling forth like the bottle of expensive perfume he had bought her on her last birthday.

Vega. His crooked smile. Vega. His dark eyes. Vega. His soulful laugh. The way he pressed his mouth against her ear the first time he told her that he loved her. The thought sits heavily on her, like a stack of bricks, and she feels like she is going to break under the weight of it all.

She closes her eyes, warring away the tears, but they fall anyway. Fall like the rain outside. And before she knows it, she is slamming her hands against the steering wheel. She continues to slam them, over and over, till she can feel her hands start to burn. She stops and grips the wheel tightly and thinks how easy it is for him to not feel anything at all, to be just completely gone, to not be here to see her falling apart. He is gone, and she is left, feeling like she might explode. She shoves a fist into her mouth and screams.

**XXX**

She returns to work earlier then the time she's allowed. His desk stands still, mostly empty now; his chair vacant. She returns her attention to her own desk and takes a sit. She picks up a pencil and begins to tap it against the hard surface. She glances around and notices the stares of several coworkers. Their eyes appear sad and she has to look away. Their scrutiny burns her like the striking of a match. She likes to think of herself as visibly wounded, wearing the hurt like a badge of honor; not wanting to forget; to forget him; to forget what he meant to her.

Two detectives chat by the water cooler. One male with brown hair. One female with yellow hair. They chat carelessly; the female's hand rests leisurely along the male's shoulder. She thinks of how easily it could have been her and Vega.

She doesn't realize how hard she is gripping her pencil, doesn't realize her knuckles have turned a paler shade, doesn't realize any of it until the yellow writing instrument snaps in two.

She scoots her chair back, ignoring the sound of metal scraping against linoleum. Several of her coworkers look in her direction, then quickly turn away, avoiding any eye contact. She pulls out his chair and takes a sit, running her hands along the cold metal surface of his desk. It feels cold and void of any life. She pulls open a drawer and takes her time sorting through the few remaining items. A couple of folded sheets of paper. Several pens. Other small objects. She gathers the contents and lays them on top of the desk. Her hands rest still next to the items, afraid her slightest touch would burn them, leaving only ashes, and taking away another piece of him within their embers.

Finally, she gathers enough courage and unfolds one of the crinkled pieces of paper. She lays it flat and smooth's a hand over the creases. It's a to-do list.  
>-Make copies of a file.<br>-Buy Milk.  
>-Pick up Angie's gift.<p>

Her breath catches in her throat. She needs to scream. She needs to hit something, anything. And for a moment, she thinks she will do just that. She glances around the precinct. Detectives discuss cases, talk on phones, and appear completely normal; as though this was any other day, as though she didn't sit a few inches away, her heart breaking in half.

She folds her arms and lays her head down, closing her eyes, all the movement around her stills, and she is invisible. Maybe when she opens her eyes he will be there, she thinks, but doesn't dare do it, instead she drifts asleep.

**XXX**

That night she lays in bed and stares at his side. She pretends he is there next to her. They are chatting like any other night.  
><em>"How was your first day back without me?" <em>He asks.  
>She doesn't want to talk about it. To think about how it feels to be without him. So she doesn't answer.<br>_"Surely, you got a case. I bet you're already working on a motive as we speak." _His voice is calm and sounds as though he's merely on vacation, instead of being gone.  
><em>"It's not the same without you," <em>she finally says.  
>He thinks for a moment. <em>"Not the same, just different, you can get use to different." <em>And then he's gone and she's alone. She traces her hand along the empty pillow, the fabric soft under her fingers. She thinks, maybe she will buy new sheets.

Her eyes move to her bedroom wall, where headlights shine occasionally, and she begins to count each time a car passes. She counts until she can't count anymore. Then she draws her legs up to chest and buries her face into his pillow and cries herself into a slumber.


	2. WINTER

**Winter**

She's in her room, on her bed, in the dark. The blinds are closed, but beams of light sneak through, casting shadows along her walls. She watches the movement through sad eyes; it reminds her of an old married couple dancing.

She's not sure how long she has been in bed, not sure if it has been hours or days; time has blended together, and she doesn't seem to mind, doesn't seem to care, she could stay right there forever.

Her hands are busy; they pluck and pull fluff from her blanket. It's her favorite bedspread; thick and green and has tiny little yellow flowers that scatter across it. Her fingers seem to have a mind of their own and she can't stop them from pulling. She tosses the white flakes into the floor, one by one, over and over, until there's a small pile of white snow.

A soft knock comes from her door, and she becomes still. The door lets out a groan as it is opened, the sudden movement straining its hinges. She covers her ears from the sound.

She watches as Manny walks in. His shoulders lowered, held down by some invisible weight. His eyes are soft and sad and she can see the concern that resides behind his stare. But she doesn't want his pity, so she turns her attention back to the shadows along her walls.

He moves across the room and takes a sit on the end of her bed, near her feet, and places his hands on his knees. She doesn't dare look at him.

Instead, she starts to recite math equations in her head, and tries to pretend he isn't in the room. _One plus one equals two_.

_"__Mom," _he says; his voice just a whisper. She tries to focus on anything other than sound of his voice, but dread begins to build. It weighs heavy against her chest: an anchor, gravity. She slams her eyes shut and starts to chew the flesh along her inner jaw. _Five plus five is ten_.

_"__I need you,"_ he continues. His words are sharp and come out like tiny knifes, they stab at her from all directions; she flinches, not wanting to hear anymore. She bites down hard, teeth scrape skin, immediately she can taste blood, but she doesn't care. _Seven plus two is nine_.

She can feel the touch of his hand on her lower calf, it burns like the string of a bee and she fights the urge to pull away. _"Come back to me, mom."_

She can't be there anymore. She can't listen to anything else he has to say. So she tries to think up more equations, but numbers evade her. She moves on to song lyrics, but only one comes to mind: _Rain, rain, go away…_her head begins to hurt. Her ears begin to ring. She doesn't want to think anymore. She doesn't want to feel anything. She starts to hum. It's not a melody from any song, but instead one long drawn out note.

She hums until Manny fades into the room, hums until her insides vibrate, hums until she feels she is going to turn inside out.

One day, she will be a better mom. She would be the kind she used to be when he was younger; the kind that fixed his scrapes and scratches; the kind that kissed away his nightmares, but not today: today, she can't be that person.

The guilt hits her hard, like a brick to the face, and she doesn't know what to say, she doesn't know what to do, she doesn't know how to make it right. So she turns around and faces her back to him, and doesn't say a word.

Moments later, she hears the clicking of her door shutting, only then does she close her eyes.

**XXX**

When she enters the bathroom, she doesn't bother to turn on the light. But even in the darkness, she catches a glimpse of her reflection. She pauses at the sink and studies herself. She is so pale, her skin almost transparent, and she can see the blue veins that run along her forehead; they make her look fragile somehow. She has shrunken in size; her already small form lost among clothes that now hang loosely. She looks as though she has been punched in both eyes. They are red and puffy and have deep dark circles under them. She doesn't recognize herself, doesn't know the girl who stares back at her.

And she wants to look away. She wants to smash the mirror. She wants to smash it till her knuckles bleed, till her image is lost in the sacraments of broken glass. But she stands frozen, unable to move, and grips the corners of her sink so tightly that she thinks her fingers will split, will break off one by one.

Somehow she makes herself move and reaches for her tube of lipstick. Her hands are shaking as she removes the lid. She stares down at the pink hue. It's bright and pretty: all the things that she doesn't feel at the moment, and she begins to twist at the end. She watches as the tip comes further and further out, watches until it can't come out anymore, and then she begins to scribble the shade along her mirror image. She covers her eyes. She covers her lips. Soon she starts to disappear. Soon she fades behind the mass of pink stickiness.

Only once she can't see herself anymore, does she pick up her toothbrush. She turns on the water and watches as it swirls around the drain, taking with it all that remains of her hopes and dreams.

**XXX**

It's wasn't her intention to buy it, but still it catches her eye. It's gold and shiny and glistens beneath the florescent lights. She stands there staring for an eternity. People rush by. They hold bags with strings. They don't notice her.

She doesn't move. She imagines what he would look like with it on. She imagines the sheen and weight of it on his wrist. She imagines how his skin would feel against hers as she puts it on him. Unconsciously, she picks it up and carries it to the purchasing counter.

An older gentleman rings her. He's beginning to bald, but she notes the soft wispy, white patches of hair that rest above his ears. He wears a reindeer cardigan and has friendly eyes. She counts the creases along his forehead. Once as a child, she learned that trees grew inside out. One circle for each year lived. She tries to determine his age by the number of his wrinkles.

He tries to make small conversation, but she just blinks and doesn't answer. She focuses her attention to his nametag. It hangs from the collar of his Christmas sweater and shakes each time he speaks. It's perfectly squared, white with bright red letters that spell out his name: DAN.

She traces the letters with her eyes: D.A.N. The name falls from her lips, though she hadn't intended to speak it aloud. He gives her a perplex look.

She blushes, her cheeks becoming red; she imagines they are the same shade as the lettering on his name badge.

He offers her bag and she takes it, deciding he doesn't look like a Dan.

**XXX**

When she arrives home, she heads in the direction of her closet. She's quick to collect the wrapping paper, a pair of scissors, and a roll of tape. She sorts through a box and gathers a few other items she might need and carries them all back to her living room.

She takes a seat and crosses her legs and begins to quietly organize the items. She lines them up in a row and places her bag in the center. She's not ready to touch it yet.

She studies the bag. It's gold and sparkles with glitter. She knows this isn't going to change anything. She knows this won't bring him back, but it's better than crying, better than screaming, better than her world falling apart.

She cuts a piece of wrapping paper down to size and traces her hand out over it. It feels glossy under her fingers. It's red and green with tiny blue snowflakes.

When she empties the bag, her stomach flops. She manages to open the box and pick out the watch. It feels warm against her skin. The soft ticking fills the room and her mind goes back to another time. Her ear is pressed to his chest as he holds her. She can hear the beating of his heart. People don't think enough about the human body. How everything has to act together. Blood. Lungs. When she thinks of Vega, she thinks of things that make her feel alive.

Her heart leaps to her throat and she tries to swallow. He's always there in the corners of her mind. She wants to throw the gift across the room. She wants to shout to the heavens. _It wasn't fair._

She begins to rock back and worth, the pressure building inside her. It starts in the pit of her stomach and moves to her chest. It's so heavy, she thinks she may cave in on herself. _Breathe. _She remains herself. _Just breathe._ She closes her eyes and begins to narrate random facts. _If you have 3 quarters, 4 dimes, and 4 pennies, you have $1.19. You also have the largest amount of money in coins without being able to make change for a dollar._

Her breathing begins to still and comes out in long even strides. _There are 10 human body parts that are only 3 letters long._ She concentrates naming each one: _eye, hip, arm, leg, ear, toe, jaw, rib, lip, gum. _

The tension eases and she is able move, to breathe, to think. She places the watch back into the box and finishes wrapping it. When she's done she takes a black sharpie marker and writes: **_OSCAR _**on the nametag.

_Elephants are the only mammals that can't jump. _The fact rings in her head as she crawls to the Christmas tree. It stands tall in the corner of the room. _"You're not tall. What? I'm your partner; you'll always get honesty from me."_

She places the gift in the back, by itself. She sits on her knees and just stares at it. It's perfectly wrapped, complete with a small red bow. Tiny lights reflect around it and she regards it sadly. She knows this Christmas won't be the same. She knows he won't be here to open it, but she decides she will save it for him anyway.

She lowers herself onto the floor and rests her head along her folded arms. She tucks her knees to her chest and doesn't mind that the floor is hard and cold. One last fact surfaces in her mind. _When you die your hair still grows for a couple of months._ It lingers in the air and she repeats over and over again. _When you die your hair still grows for a couple of months. _She wonders how long his hair is now. She wonders if he misses her as much as she misses him.


	3. SPRING

**Spring**

She dreams that he is standing before her, his hand outstretched, and all she has to is reach out and take it, but her arms are heavy, they weigh like bags of cement, and hang at her sides. She's unable to move. She can only watch as he mouths her name, voice silent, and then she jolts awake.

It's sometime in the morning, early, but the moon is still out, the light from it sneaks in from her window. She swallows and tries to even her breathing. She brushes beads of sweat from her brow. The air is thick and humid, static around her, and she finds it almost suffocating. She lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of a tree branch. It moves in such a way, that it reminds her of poetry.

She recalls her dream, vivid images flash in her mind like tiny bulbs of light going off. She tries to be still, light as air, but her body is wild and needs to move, so she turns over on her side, and half expects to find him there sleeping.

Of course, he's not there, and it leaves her feeling impossibly sad. She draws her knees to her chest, and tries to inhabit as little space as possible.

Minutes seem to pass by slowly, like years of a life, and she waits for it all to end; for everything to just go away. But nothing happens, and she feels the walls start to cave in, the room becomes smaller, it steals away her ability to breathe, she has to get up and open a window.

There's a chill in the air, it causes goose bumps to speck her skin. She rubs her hands over her arms, trying to smudge them away. She takes a seat on the floor, and lays her head along the window still. She's able to breathe here.

The sky is dark and clear, and she can see every star. They're bright and yellow and she wonders if this is where his soul now resides, somewhere out there among the galaxy, just beyond her reach.

Sometimes, on nights like this, she and Vega would stay up for hours and discuss some case they were working on. Their voices would be loud, anxious, as though adrenaline pumped through their veins. She would be sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the wall next to the window. He would be perched on the end of her bed, one leg crossing the other, and they would bounce theories back and worth. One of them would eventually figure out the motive, and they would high-five one another, their eyes sparkling like diamonds.

If she knew that was it, that there would never be another night like that again, she would have summited every detail to memory. What he was wearing. How he smelled. The way he would move his hands as though his words alone couldn't make the point. She would remember everything. How she felt in his presence, as though she was the most important thing in his life.

But people don't think like that. They just think that everything will stay the same. They never look up in a moment, that feels like every other moment in their lives and think, this will all be over soon, that they will never feel this way again, but she knows differently now. It hurts her deep down, beneath her skin, just under her bones where her tissue lies. And, in a moment, she never feels more incomplete.

She imagines that she is blowing away, in the wind, like a dandelion, scattering pieces of herself along fields of long grass. She pictures him lying there, watching as she blows by.

She positions herself across the floor and becomes completely still. Her heart echoes so hard against the floorboards that she thinks her eardrums will burst. She has to close her eyes, for every time she opens them, she sees him perched on the edge of her bed.

**XXX**

Today, she smiles, and pretends she's happy, when she's not, pretends to be okay, when she's not, pretends she is everything to everyone. But she can tell they see right through her and she grows tired of pretending.

**XXX**

She arrives home to find Lucas and Manny discussing her in the living room. Their voices are low and they stop talking when she walks in. Her stomach drops, she's not in the mood for an intervention.

She stares at Lucas. He's standing next to her fireplace, wearing an expensive looking suit. He has on a crisp, white button-down shirt that reminds her of clouds. His hair is perfect and combed to the side and she is tempted to reach out and mess it up.

She looks at Manny. He's sitting on the edge of the couch, his elbows propped on his knees, cupping his chin in the palms of his hands. He looks very worried. _"Mom," _He says, _"We need to talk." _

And she is a million miles away. They blur so much that she can no longer see them clearly. She tries not to focus; instead she listens for passing cars, for birds chirping, for the sound of children playing. She listens for anything other than the sound of their voices. But still, some of their words break through: _something about being depressed, something about needing medication, something about talking to someone._

She tries to recite the alphabet in her head, and doesn't think about how they don't get it. How they don't understand. How she is broken into a million pieces.

She drops her bags, and doesn't say a word as she walks past them, and heads in the direction of her room. She pauses long enough to pull his shirt out from her bottom drawer, then crawls into her bed, under the covers. She feels somehow safe there, like a caterpillar in its cocoon. She smells his shirt, she can still smell him there, and she instantly hugs the fabric, it feels as though he's there with her. Maybe tomorrow will be different, she thinks, as tears begin to sting her eyes.

**XXX**

She's at work, sitting in a bathroom stall, alone. Her coworkers are being extra nice to her again, and it pisses her off. They treat her delicately as though she is made out of glass and can break at any moment. She doesn't need them; she doesn't even care about them.

She kicks at the door with one of her boots, it unlatches and swings open. She stares at the wall of mirrors and sinks and suddenly she imagines him standing there.

He's wearing the standard attire: suit and tie. He looks like he looked every day, scruffy and interested. He's leaning against one of the sinks; his arms crossed in front of him, staring at her incorrigibly. She wants to say, _what? What are you looking at? _But she's so happy to see him, that she doesn't say anything. She just sits there and watches him. He says, _"Angie, what are you doing?"  
><em>She shrugs and gestures her arms in question. _"What does it look like I'm doing?"_  
><em>"It looks like you're hiding." <em>He says, and suddenly he looks sad, as though it was the saddest thing he has ever said.  
>She nods her head exaggeratedly. <em>"That's exactly what I'm doing." <em>It comes out all matter of fact like, as though it was scientifically proven, like she had the certification to prove its authenticity.  
>He's quiet for a moment, brows narrowed in consideration, and then he says, <em>"Angie Flynn doesn't hide. The Angie I know isn't scared of anything."<em>

And then he's gone. Just like that. She's alone once again, sitting in a bathroom stall, and she wants to scream at the vacant spot he stood just moments ago. She wants to tell him that the Angie he knew was gone. That she wasn't that person anymore. That she was only that way when she was with him. That she isn't brave anymore. Angie Flynn is scared of everything. Mostly, she is afraid of living without him. But she doesn't say any of it. She just sits there silently and thinks how easy it is for him to be gone, to just leave her behind like some afterthought. Soon she decides to stay in the bathroom for the rest of the day.


	4. SUMMER

**XXX**

**Summer**

She can feel time elapse before her, like those scenes from movies, where a plant sprouts, blooms, and then dies, all in less than a minute. She's on day number 238, she knows because she has counted every single one of them. Somehow, she has been on auto pilot, living off routine: _wake up, go to work, come home. Repeat. _She tries not to put too much thought into anything anymore.

Her hairbrush is purple and sits on her dresser in front of her. It's squared, with a long handle, and has really soft bristles. She likes to run her hand over them, they prickle her skin and she pushes her hand down, enjoying the pressure from it. She feels numb as she remembers how Vega would sometimes use it when he thought she wasn't looking.

She picks it up and measures the weight of it in her hand. It's not really heavy, but it's enough to make her feel like she's holding on to something. She begins to brush her hair in long even strokes. She starts at her roots and moves down through her hair. She's very gentle at first, careful.

Sometimes, Vega would watch her do this. His eyes would be dark and sparkle with hints of amber. He would just sit there and watch as though her brushing her hair was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

She recalls the color of his eyes; he had the brownest eyes she'd ever seen. They were this deep, rich hue, like little chocolate chips. She felt when he looked at her, he was seeing through her. Right down to her core, she always felt bare in front of him. They always made him seem mysterious and she would often imagine all the secrets that they held. She thought one day she would be able to discover them all. But that felt like a lifetime ago now.

She changes her thoughts, and remembers how as a child, she took an art class, where she learned all the colors that could make brown. She tries to recall them all. _Red and green make brown. Orange and blue make brown. Purple and yellow make brown. _She repeats it over and over in her head, repeats it so much that she is actually saying the words out loud.

She continues to brush her hair, but this time her strokes are hard and fast and she winces from the pain, but doesn't stop. _Red and green make brown. Orange and blue make brown. Purple and yellow make brown._

She says it over and over; the words slip off her tongue in quick succession; until finally it makes just one long sentence: _Redandgreenmakebrownorangeandbluemakebrownpurpleandyellowmakebrown._

She says it again and again, amused at how it sounds each time she does. She starts to laugh and it's one of those hysterical kinds of laughter; the kind that makes a person appear crazy, but she doesn't stop. Her shoulders shake—her head twists back, and then she realizes she isn't laughing anymore. She's sobbing uncontrollably.

She drops her brush, and tries to ignore the glops of blonde hair in it.

**XXX**

She lounges across her bed, and struggles to get comfortable on the mattress. It feels lumpy and stiff for some reason. She wonders what day of the week it is. Somehow she's managed to lose track. She has been thinking a lot about him, more than normal.

Her house is empty, but she still locks herself in her room, she feels more at peace that way; like no one can get in, she can be alone with her thoughts. Lately, she has been remembering random moments.

Like how on one summer night she convinced Vega to go for a ride. They had been working late and as they walked to the parking lot, there was something about that night, the warm air, the light breeze. All she knew was that she wasn't ready for it to end. She talked him into taking her car, and into driving. It was out of character for her, but it felt like it had to be this way. She rolled down all the windows, so the air came through from all directions. They had no real destination; most places were closed now anyway. So they just drove around town. She laid her head out the window and stared at streetlights. They blurred by in little shots of gray and she closed her eyes. Neither of them said a word; both always comfortable being silent together. He was the only person that she could do that with. Just be completely still.

That is what she misses most about him. That she could just be herself. That the world could turn upside down, around and around, and in his presence, everything would be still, at peace. Sometimes she imagines she's died with him; sometimes she longs for It. Sometimes she thinks it would have been easier that way.

**XXX**

Today, she is sitting on a park bench; the breeze is light around her. It's a really beautiful day; the sky is clear, the sun is out. And she's glad she was able to convince herself to get out of bed. Summer always had been her favorite season.

There are trees on both sides of her, tall long branches that reach heaven bound. Their limbs are full of rich greens and yellows; the announcement of rebirth, of new season, and this makes her slightly sad, for she no longer believes anything exists after death.

Or not in her case—not on earth at least. She read a book on grief, on each of the mourning stages; she thinks she is permanently stuck on anger. How could she not be?—How dare him to just leave her behind. How dare him not to open his eyes as she screamed over him from the hospital bed, gripping his hand so tightly, that she prayed her own life would fold into his retreating one.

These things weren't supposed to happen to her—to them. Whatever it is that is happening to her, she knew it is of her own fault—some punishment from the universe, she must have done something wrong, something so terribly wrong, that even she doesn't know what it is—but it is drowning her, making her feel inadequate and wrong, without worth—and without worth or purpose, she might as well be dead, with him.

And she just wants everything to go back to how it was, to how it was before all of this, but there's no point in it—in wanting.

A soft sound of a child's laughter catches her attention and she looks in the direction of where a sandbox is tucked beneath a cove of trees. Two children are playing; a boy and a girl. The boy looks around the age of seven, and he's protective, and yet, teasing at the same time, over the little girl. Who appears to be a little younger, blonde hair in pig-tails and hands on hips, and for the first time, in a long time, she finds herself smiling.

A real smile, one felt from inside your soul, not like the fake ones that she has been sporting since his death. This one is very much real. There's an element about their relationship that borders on brother and sister, and something perhaps more intimate, that makes you wonder about childhood love.

She remembers the first time Vega asked her out on a date. Not the quick lunches they were used to grabbing together while working on cases, but an actual dress-up date. How his hands were digging into his pockets as he stood in front of her, sheepishly, and how she smiled at him, and teased him the whole time, till he finally just spit the question out. It had been a long time coming, both already sort of feeling it out, but neither making the first move. Oh Oscar. Vega…

The realization once more slams against her like a tidal wave; he is gone. And there was nothing she could do about it. She grabs her purse from the bench and runs from the park, runs pass the laughing children in the sandbox, runs until she is out of breath and there isn't anywhere left for her to go.

She digs into her purse, feeling the glossy print, and pulls it out. It's a picture of her and Vega, smiling brightly at the camera, on their date at his father's wedding reception—and the guilt hits her. He would never again be on this earth—and here she was moments ago, smiling—and how completely and utterly wrong it was—for her to smile.

**XXX**


	5. FALL, AGAIN

**XXX**

**FALL, AGAIN**

Its fall, again; a year later, and to her, it doesn't feel as though time has moved. To her, she is still sitting in her car, in the falling rain, sobbing uncontrollably; he has just died, and her world is falling apart.

But she's not in her car, she is sitting on her couch, between the cushions, trying to fall through them, trying to become invisible, but no matter how hard she tries, she always remains, but barely breathing.

She doesn't know how to explain it—other than as though it's like one of her limbs has been removed, it's simply gone, but it still hurts, and she still longs for its return.

That is how she feels without him, as though a large part of her is missing, and she may never be whole again.

She doesn't speak his name aloud anymore, she keeps that for herself, locks it away in her heart, and though everyone tries to tell her that it's time to move on, she doesn't know how to. How does one move on, when all they do is stand still?

Lucas is at her house, busy trying to unseal one of her windows. He has been coming over a lot lately, at least twice a week, if not more. He cooks or brings her dinner, makes sure she has groceries, tries to keep her company. But mostly they just sit on her sofa, silent, but he's persistent.

She watches him fight with the grain of wood around her window, and he's in the same room with her, but she feels so alone, so far removed, that she longs for human contact, for feeling anything other than numb, and even though she doesn't like Lucas in that way, and even though she doesn't even want this, she can't stop herself from moving, from standing up. She thinks, perhaps, if she were to feel something physical, maybe it wouldn't hurt anymore.

So before she has time to really think about what she is doing, she moves to the middle of her living room. His back is still towards her, he hasn't notice she's moved. And without much thought, she pulls off her sweater and allows the fabric to fall along the floor.

He doesn't turn to face her, and she is standing there, in her bra; her heart is racing and her hands are sweaty. She knows Lucas has never seen her like this before, and she holds her breath, waiting for him to turn around.

And when he finally does, she instantly regrets it, for he turns red in embarrassment. His face flushes and he swallows, not sure on what to say.

So she doesn't say anything, just sort of crosses her arms across her chest, attempting to cover up her nudity.

"Angie," he says, stepping forward and picking up her shirt. "What are you doing?" And his voice is soft and kind, so much, that she snatches her shirt from him, quickly pulling it back on.

She's mad at herself, or perhaps mad at him, or maybe a little bit of both. She doesn't know what to say so she just shrugs, and tries hard to hold back her tears, but she doesn't do a very good job at it, because she can feel them falling down her cheeks, staining her skin with her shame.

And Lucas is reaching for her, trying to comfort her, but she doesn't want any of it, so she pushes him hard against the chest, but he tries again, his hands touching her shoulders, so she pushes harder, her tight fists slamming against his chest, and then she's yelling at him, _"Why," _and she says it over and over, until she's so tired she collapses in Lucas's arms, and they both drop to the floor.

He just holds her, till her crying resides, and she is still in his arms, and then he breathes into her hair, "_Angie, I think you need to talk to someone."_

And she thinks, he's right, perhaps it's time.

**XXX**

She sits in a waiting room in the doctor's office; it's been about a month since Lucas has convinced her to finally talk to a therapist, and now she wonders if this is such a good idea after all.

The room that she sits in is small with yellow walls; they scream calm and happy, and she grips her chair even tighter, already feeling anxious from being there.

Finally a woman appears at the door, she's short, about Angie's age, with long dark hair. She smiles at her and introduces herself as 'Dr. Moore', but Angie can call her by her first name, Meghan.

She follows her back to her office. It's a larger room then the waiting room, with blue walls, she's not sure what she had expected, but it isn't this. To one side, there's a pair of extra-large comfy chairs. To the other side, the doctor's desk, a leather seat behind her desk and one in front of it. There's no sofa, and this surprises Angie, she always imagined laying on a sofa, while the doctor took notes on a yellow legal pad.

Meghan just stares at her, and Angie realizes she is waiting for her to decide which seating would be more comfortable for her. She picks the leather seat in front of the desk, she rather the doctor be behind her desk, a safe distant from her, and in a more formal setting.

Meghan takes a seat and smiles at Angie, "So what would you like to talk about?"

**XXX**

She returns to Meghan's office once every week, and the doctor is nice and friendly, and always has an assortment of candies in a bowl on her desk, that Angie is always welcomed too. She decides on a peppermint and opens the candy, enjoying how the wrapper crinkles beneath her fingers, distracting her for the moment.

She doesn't talk about him, or his death, they only talk about things that are present: like the weather, movies that are coming out, weekend plans; things like that.

But today, Meghan approaches the subject and Angie spits out her candy, it leaves a bad taste in her mouth and she swallows hard.

She wonders why it's impossible to say his name aloud, why it's so hard; why everything is so hard, and she wonders if anything will ever be easy again.

"You should try talking about him," Meghan says.

And Angie just silently sits there, staring out the window. A bird lands on a nearby tree branch. Its wings are red and he just sits there, and flaps them and when it finally flies away, she thinks of Vega and his spirit flying heaven bound, away from her, away with the bird.

She turns back to Meghan and breathes. "His name was Oscar Vega," and her voice is unsteady, and sounds so small. "And he was my partner, in every sense of the word."

And something clicks from deep inside, and breaks, and spills out, and she thinks she may never be quiet again, and the doctor just listens.

**XXX**

And for the first time in months, she talks; talks about him. Talks about who is he was, how important he was to her, how he made her feel. Sometimes, her voice comes out fast as though the words just can't come out fast enough. And other times, she can barely form a sentence; her voice comes out shaky, meek.

When she looks out the window, she sees birds taking flight, they fly so high, and she imagines him taking flight with them. She can see him flying; he goes higher and higher until he fades into the blue of the sky. And he looks down at her, watching her, and for the first time, in a long time, she begins to think maybe she will be okay.

Maybe, she will be able to move. Maybe she isn't still anymore.

**XXX**

(Okay, so that was the end of this story. I want to thank my one reader, you know who you are, who stayed with me throughout this depressing journey.)


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